Fame?—the chickadee is calling;—
Love?—the fat pine cones are falling;
Heaven?—the berries in the air,—
Eternity—their juice so rare.
And if thy sorrows will not fly,
Then get thee down and softly die.
In the eddy of the breeze,
Leave the world beneath those trees,
And the purple runnel's tune
Melodize thy mossy swoon."